


Mars Man

by DaltonG



Category: NASA RPF
Genre: Bukkake, Established Relationship, F/M, fake NASA lore, sweat kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaltonG/pseuds/DaltonG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fleshing out of a fantasy that ran through my head as I watched the Mars rover Curiosity land. What if I could actually go home with the gorgeous middle-aged capcom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mars Man

Tonight was not her night.

She had had other nights, days and nights of ecstatic victory when a hard job well-done came to fruition. Maybe none as public as this one, but certainly times when her small team had felt the joy of success and celebrated accomplishment. So she could graciously step back and let him have this night; she did not need to be jealous of the amazing journey he was currently part of.

Oh, bullshit. Who was she kidding. She'd give her left pinkie toe to be in that control room, never mind that she didn't even work on Mars missions. She'd chosen Earth observation years before she met him, preferring to focus on her own planet and, if the truth be known, feeling a bit intimidated about working on planets that were far away from our own. She'd made her bed, and actually she lay in it pretty happily with him night after night--that is, when one or the other of them weren't working a mission.

Tonight was amazing, though. She was there in the visitor's gallery, watching the main show through the glass with the other family members. As the Mars rover called Curiosity approached the red planet, the tension in the gallery grew to match that in the com center. You could see it in everyone's faces, broadcast close-up and without pity by the roving photojournalists and splayed onto NASA TV for the world to see. She checked her Twitter feed from time to time and saw that #Mohawk was trending; the young controller was getting proposals of marriage and other, more prurient offers. She grinned. Roy had told her that there had been several meetings at NASA HQ Public Affairs about the heterogeneous look of the control room. Women, they were proud of. Men whose hair was shorn in the old-school style of the Moon landings (men who were toddlers propped up in front of the TV during the actual Moon landings, when the hairstyle was made popular) were quite approved of. But then there were a few real old-timers, from the early days of JPL space exploration, guys from the free-wheeling seventies who just plain looked like hippies. And then there was Jack, the young man with the PhD in astrophysics from CalTech, whose thesis had revolutionised the design of some gizmo or other on the launcher--and he looked like a badass punk rocker. There were some in the old guard who couldn't stomach it. But Roy, the team lead, along with the director at JPL, had told them where to shove their disapproval, and popular opinion was trending in Jack's favor.

She looked over to where Roy sat. She could only see the back of his head when he was at his console. His thinning, graying hair was mashed down a little by his headset. She'd always had a thing for his hair. That conservative, boyish cut caught her eye in the cafeteria the first day she started at JPL, even before she saw his gentle brown eyes, even before she knew what he did for a living or how the mere sound of his voice saying "hello" would send a shiver up her arms. This afternoon, when she gave him a final wardrobe check before he drove in, she'd had to keep her hands out of his hair so she wouldn't mess it up. Her fingers twitched a little as she thought about what she would be doing to it in the wee hours of the morning...

Now Roy was standing up, doing a subsystem checkin that was broadcast on NASA TV. She grinned and wondered if there were women watching around the world wishing they could go home with him tonight. Hell, maybe there were men wishing it too. He was so damn hot. And she would get to be with him just as she had been for the past ten years. Suck it, girls, she thought. She considered tweeting that but decided it was definitely in the "frowned upon" realm.

When the rover finally landed--after the gallery had been so silent that you couldn't even hear breathing for five minutes--the com center exploded. Arms were pumping in the air. Scientists were hugging and crying. She watched Roy, who sat calmly for a moment as if he couldn't believe the news that the touchdown was successful. And suddenly he leapt into the air, whooping so loudly she could hear it through the glass, and she laughed, tears streaming down her face. It really was quite an improbable engineering feat. She almost hadn't believed it would work (though she never, ever would have let him know). And then the first picture came in, to more yelling, and he turned around and locked eyes with her and grinned the most beautiful grin.

Oh, how she loved this man.

It was 4:30 in the morning before they made it home to their small apartment just off-site. Both of them had been reluctant to leave the infectious happiness of the center, but he had to be up for another shift in 8 hours and it was time to knuckle down to reality again. They walked in the door and as she put her bag on the table, he leaned back against it, grinning. He hadn't stopped grinning in the past 4 hours. His face must hurt, she thought.

She turned back and leaned up against him and kissed him in a luxuriously open-mouthed kiss so that he could stop grinning and relax his face muscles. He responded enthusiastically and she could feel that he was already hard, his erection pressing deliciously against his khaki pants and her skirt, right at her pudenda level. She'd always loved that about how they fit together. He was just enough taller than her that she didn't feel awkward, but he was the right height so that standing, his cock was at her crotch level instead of uselessly opposite her abdomen, they way her last too-tall boyfriend's had been. She ground up against him, rolling her hips, and he chuckled low in his throat.

"I am a mighty, mighty man."

"You are indeed."

"I put a small car in a crater 35 million miles away from here. Gently, and with style."

"Yes you did."

"I would think a woman would want to feel the might of such a man plunging deep inside her."

She snickered. But she played along.

"Yes, yes, a woman would. And she would have hope that your navigation systems might find their target without too much trouble."

He laughed and hugged her tight.

"We did it. We fucking did it. I cannot FUCKING believe it."

Her expression grew serious and she put her hands on either side of his face.

"You did it. And it was the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

"Sexier than my strip tease to 'Love Machine'?"

"Sexier even than that. Though it's a tough call." She began to unbuckle his belt. "I think you should be stripping right now, mister Mission Commander. C'mon, get that shirt off. You know what I want." She pulled the belt through its loops and tossed it aside as he pulled off his official cornflower-blue mission polo shirt, stripping the white undershirt along with it. She sighed with pleasure as she ran her hands through the light scattering of soft gray curls on his chest; then she leaned down and pressed her face between his arm and his torso and inhaled deeply.

It had taken a year before she was brave enough to confess her sweat kink to him. She'd never told anyone about it--well, not since the ill-fated drunken admission to a college boyfriend who laughed at her, then became disgusted and stalked out of her dorm room and avoided her for the next two years. She was understandably wary about telling any lovers after that, though she surreptitiously sniffed at armpits and crotches when she thought she could get away with it. She couldn't explain it to herself, other than perhaps some sort of dormant scent-instinct from her hindbrain that perked up at the smell of clean male sweat. Not all people's odors worked for her; in fact, that was how she knew she had sympatico with a potential lover, was when she could get close enough to get a good strong whiff of their sweaty aura after a workout. So far it had only happened with men, and just a few of them. Roy had been the best. Just a hint of the smell of one of his shirts after a long day and she was damp between her legs. And the warm smell in the crease between his thigh and his groin, after he'd had a shower and then gotten sweaty through lovemaking, could make her come all over again. But back then, she wasn't about to let him know that.

Unfortunately, he was as observant as he was sweet, and one night he plied her with wine coolers and then, after the subterfuge of an hour of conversation about the state of metadata standards in Earth science research, he launched a surprise attack.

"Why do you like to stick your nose in my armpit?"

She opened her mouth--to say what, she wasn't sure--and immediately aspirated the sip of wine cooler she'd just taken.

"So big," he said, and made her put her hands in the air, even though that never helped her when she was choking. He also pounded her on her back, and when she had cleared her lungs and was breathing a bit more easily, shifted to rubbing her back soothingly.

"There's no judgement here, Christy. You know me. It's all good as long as it's safe, sane, and consensual. And I am not planning to withdraw consent for you to sniff my pits."

She just watched him, horrified, her face beet red.

"There's precedent," he cajoled. "'A Fish Called Wanda.' Kevin Kline, for heaven's sake. If Kevin Kline does it, it can't be all bad, can it?"

"But that was his own armpits," she said weakly.

He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him sideways, so they were both facing straight ahead on the sofa. He was extraordinarily good with subtle social nuances like that; it would be easier for her to talk if she wasn't being watched.

"What's it about? Maybe if you talk about it, we can share it. Maybe you can get more of whatever it is that's working for you."

She remained silent.

"Dare to ask for what you want, Christy. You just might get it."

She took a deep breath.

"I just...I really like, certain, sweat smells. Like your sweat. It turns me on."

He rubbed her arm encouragingly. "Nothing wrong with that. It's interesting." After a pause, during which she just sat miserably blushing, he prompted, "Anything more? Anything you want to do about it that we're not doing?"

She reached for her wine cooler and chugged the second half, cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and said in a small voice,

"I'd really like to rub my face in your armpit. I'd like to be covered in your scent."

She dared a glance over at him. He'd given up the neutral, look-off-into-space ploy and was gazing at her. She realized his pupils were huge.

"That's actually really hot, you know that? To cover you in my scent...that must be triggering some kind of primitive scent-marking instinct. God! It's almost the same as when you smear my jizz all over your breasts." That had been an interesting conversation, when he'd confessed his penchant for bukkake. She thought back to that night and how hesitant he had been to tell her, and how it had not only not bothered her but indeed intrigued her, and how their love life had only grown better afterwards.

Bravely, she turned toward him, lifted the arm that he had placed around her shoulders, and pushed her face into his warm, t-shirt covered underarm. He moaned softly and she moved her face hesitantly from side to side, feeling something slide into place inside her, some freedom opening up in her mind.

That had been 9 years ago, when they were still feeling each other out, learning to trust each other. Tonight, though, they were old buddies, well-versed in finding pleasure together. So he pulled off his polo shirt and his undershirt together, efficiently, and lifted his arm, and she leaned in and *licked*, glorying in the taste and smell of 5 hours of tension, the infamous 7 minutes of terror, and hours of celebrating afterwards. Roy had to wear deodorant--it was just too hard to get along in civilized American society without it--but he wore a light deodorant they bought from the natural foods store, and it wore off by the end of his shift. He had also cut down on dairy and meat in the past few years, which let him get away with the lighter chemical.

And so she chewed and sucked and nuzzled and wallowed, still pressing against him, as he hardened even more, his understanding of what she got out of it turning him on as it always did.

She stepped back and gave him a smoldering look, her eyes almost black with pupil. She pulled off her blouse and shimmied out of her skirt, and he stepped out of his unbelted khakis and shuffled off his socks with his toes. She leaned down to pull off her panties and realized that she was still wearing the very hated, necessary-for-public-events pantyhose and as she tried to drag them down her legs, put her finger through one of them as she so inevitably did. (She'd seen a "How It's Made" episode once about making pantyhose, where they stretched the hose this way and that over multiple plastic forms, yanking them about and sewing on gussetts and flinging them onto irons, and she had wondered how they could be sturdy enough for all that at the factory and could rip like tissue paper the minute she tried to put them onto her own legs.)

With just her periwinkle bra on--worn in honor of the mission colors--and Roy in his simple boxers, she dragged him to the bedroom by his hand as he stumbled behind her trying to keep up.

"Do me, space man," she said as she climbed onto the bed on her knees. "Line your missile up and...oh no, that's just not going to work." She grimaced at the hideous cliche as he chuckled.

"Yeah, there's only so far we can stretch this analogy."

"Okay, fine," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "Put your gorgeous, hard, weeping cock into my hot wet slit and pump me, man of mine."

"That," he said as he stepped out of his boxers and climbed onto the bed, also on his knees, "I can do."

He pushed against her shoulders, a little roughly--just the level of roughness they'd honed over the years, enough to titillate, not so much to require negotiation or a full scene--and she fell back against the pillows with a sigh. He slid down her body until his head was above her muff and blew down on it tauntingly.

"Tease."

"Oh no, my darling. This is no tease." He extended his tongue and pushed the tip in between her labia next to her vaginal entrance, then broadened it and licked slowly and wetly up between the labia minora. He used the middle of his tongue muscle to press harder against her clit and she groaned with a shiver.

"Roy. Sweetheart. Love of my life."

He looked up, licking his lips.

"There is time for that later. But as you can see, I am quite juicy. So stick your damn man meat in me NOW."

"How could I refuse such a genteel request," he murmured as he moved back up her body and knelt between her legs, his hands on her knees, spreading them to either side like butterfly wings. He reached down and lined his cock up with her entrance, which was indeed rather wet, and slowly--inexorably, is the adjective that she always heard ringing in her mind when he did this--pushed into her in one long steady stroke until he was almost against her cervix (she'd never liked having her cervix pounded, and it was so nice that he was thick but not so long that he bruised her) and his pubis nuzzled her pussy lips. She looked up at him with eyes hooded with satisfaction, and then gasped as he pulled out swiftly and jammed back in with a faintly sly smile.

"You. Were. Amazing. Tonight," she huffed between definitive thrusts. Tonight was not a leisurely love-making, the two of them gently undulating, her hips rising to meet his and falling just to feel the slow satisfying slide of cock skin against cunt skin. No. This was one of those times where the best she could do was lie there and let him spread her open with his hands and shove into her again and again with singular intent. She was breathing hard; her cunt felt hot and wet and over-stimulated. He was making lovely "Hunnnh" noises with each thrust. She could tell that he was trying to keep his eyes fixed on hers and was fighting the instinct to scrunch them tightly closed in ecstasy.

"That's it...fuck me...fuck me you amazing man. You landed a vehicle on MARS tonight. You are a god." She wasn't thinking much about what she was saying any more, and the things she usually thought privately were spilling out her mouth as he plowed into her.

"Oh god," he called out, and dropped so his arms were on either side of her, supporting himself on the bed, and his thrusts became quick and short and hard and she knew he was close. She looked up and saw the sweat beading on his forehead, and she reached up and dragged both hands through the wetness under his arms and lifted them to her face as he started to holler. She could feel him shooting inside of her--oh god bless fluid-bonding, she'd so missed this feeling in the age of condoms--and suddenly his scent made a chemical connection through her nose into her brain straight down to her clit and then she was coming too, clenching oh so tightly around him, with some kind of yelling noise, and he was still pumping, saying "oh, oh, oh", and she reached to feel his biceps and yep, sure enough, there were the chillbumps, and then another big spasm hit her and she wrenched her head back and cried out.

He was emptied out, but he stayed pressed deep inside her until he felt all her spasms stop, and then he lay down on top of her, gently, still holding most of his weight off her but making sure their skin was connecting all up and down their bodies (except of course where her bra had been left on in their haste), slippery with sweat and hot. He bent his head down and delicately kissed her, slowly, tasting her and moving his lips precisely against hers. Then he sighed and lay his head on her chest.

"Oh fuck yeah," she murmured, and she finally got to run her hands through the slick strands of his sweaty, beautiful, mars-man hair.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know the name or the position of the fellow who caught my eye on tonight's broadcast, and it's probably just as well, I wouldn't want to embarrass him. He looked a bit like The Avenger's Hawkeye; you know you saw him. And I definitely don't know the name or background of Mohawk Guy; complete fiction. All details about JPL are out of my own little head; never been there. I played fast and loose with the positions and names of other folks in the com center, and any aspersions cast on NASA HQ and NASA Public Affairs are purely dramatic license. This is my first fic posted at AO3 and maybe my fourth fic ever posted anywhere. I have no beta; all grammar errors--particularly the run-on sentences left in for "stylistic" (lazy) reasons--are my own. Critiques and comments encouraged.
> 
> This is not what I usually read; it is not slash and there is almost no angst. As some of my favorite writers say, IDEK. And you'll notice that you won't find the word "boneless" in this or any of my other stories. People, it's worn thin! 
> 
> I hope this scratches some itch for someone else who was watching the end of Curiosity's interplanetary journey with crossed fingers and pounding heart tonight.


End file.
